


Neighbours

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bonding, Food, Friendship, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starting Over, you... can totally read this as romantic in fact pls do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25111375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: She summons all her courage. "Could we... t-try to be friends?" Her heart stutters with worry for what may or may not be.But it's not needed for such a sweet man. Raphael beams and nods. "Absolutely!" He says, holding out his hand for her to take. "Start with me, and I'll start with you, Bernadetta."Fighting caution, Bernadetta reaches out and shakes his hand. She musters her strongest smile for him. "Okay Raphael."A baker/florist AU in which Bernadetta and Raphael learn how to be friends. A special upload for Raphael week, day 2: food and friendship!
Relationships: Raphael Kirsten/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Neighbours

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this in my wips for a while and when i heard about raphael week i knew i wanted to post it, no matter how cheesy and self indulgent it is (my two favourite things are flower symbolism and food, i deadass baked cookies before posting this). i hope to continue it in the future bc bernieraph is perhaps my favoruite 3h ship right beside mercedue and i have.... ideas..... regardless i hope you enjoy it!  
> stay safe out there everyone,  
> as always, thanks for reading n everything y'all do ♥️♥️♥️

Bernadetta doesn’t usually see customers in the flower shop past three. Around that time, she slinks out of the backroom, giving her hand a rest from wrapping flowers. Usually by then, her coworkers, Dedue and Ignatz, will have packed up books and tools and leave. Her shift really starts then, because by then, Dedue’s frame will fill the workshop doorway, and he will tell her that they’re leaving for the day.

Dedue to the local church to see his partner, Mercedes and help with after school programs; Ignatz to the university for evening art classes. On occasion, another girl will come in with blue hair and a soft voice—but Bernadetta has only seen her a few times. She’s reclusive just like her.

The scheduling is strategic, to be frank. Bernadetta adores the plants but hates the customers. Most of the time the conversation they have is short, brief. Talk of the flowers the customer picked, who they’re for, the weather outside (perhaps even a remark of “is it still raining?” will come from her lips if she’s feeling chatty) is all that is spoken. Maybe even a “ _how are you_ ” from the purchaser.

Bernadetta likes it that way. It keeps her guarded, protected even.

To her colleagues, she’s even more reclusive. They’ll ask how she fares today, how her days off were, maybe if she’s got any plans. Dedue will be more cognizant in his questions, reading her body language aptly when she tenses up or her voice stutters. At the first tense of her shoulders, he will turn away, their conversation done.

Ignatz however, is less apt with such small movements. Since he saw her doodling on the edge of her napkin one afternoon, he’s been chattier. He’ll ask if she’s drawn anything lately, how her supplies fare, even tell her when the local arts and craft store is having a sale. Not really that she needs the latter. Ignatz has even tacked on “ _though I suppose finances are not completely of your concern_ ”.

They all know that she’s the daughter of an esteemed businessman, that is certain. Varley is not a common name, and only strikes up the image of the fearsome Mr Von Varley, one of the most competitive business brawlers of Adrestia.

Why she’s taking the graveyard shift working in a flower shop is the true mystery to them.

Though, she supposes it’s better that way. Little mysteries can be fun—in truth, she always enjoys a good detective novel—and besides. They’re just her coworkers. Not much to her other than a break in the caring and wrapping of flowers.

Besides, discussing that she’s in the town of Garreg Mach to hide from her father would cause more uproar and might get her caught and sent home to Adrestia.

She’s just come back from lunch with her ”sandwich” (which is actually a slice of chocolate cake from the cafe nearby), when Dedue and Ignatz are shrugging on their coats and bags.

“We are on our way out.” Dedue says.

“Do you need anything before we go?” Ignatz asks.

Bernadetta shakes her head. “N-No, I'm fine.” She says softly.

Dedue nods and gives her a wordless goodbye. Ignatz stays for a moment longer, chattering about a new set of paint brushes that he scored off a freshman and how the university bookstore is an empire of thieves. Bernadetta gives a lukewarm interest, liking Ignatz plenty but not entirely thrilled by the sudden conversation. Calling her Mother is an entire ordeal, included with thirty minutes of talking herself into it and psyching herself up, then the planning of the call and the sudden ring of her cell phone that she dreads and panics over. Finally, the eventually call back she rings her mother with, filled with intense dread and fear the entire time.

“You should come to the workshop sometime.” Ignatz suggests. “We’d love to have a new member, you don’t have to be a student to join, you know.”

Often, he speaks of this workshop, which is a little more than a dozen artists crammed in a tiny lecture hall in the back boards of the university. There’s no air conditioning, but people bring coffee from a nearby cafe on campus. It’s a free space that runs from 6 to 9 pm every Tuesday and Thursday, that Ignatz dutifully goes to. She’s seriously considered it a few times, but the thought of lugging a canvas trapped inside an art tube and a big bag pull of her watercolours and inks uphill makes her think twice. That’s not even factoring if she can psych herself up enough to set foot inside the room, and then, Goddess forbid, someone sees her half-finished work. What if they laugh at it? What if they tell her the self-taught aren’t welcomed, or that she shouldn’t quit her day job? Or worst, what if they just stare at it and then walk away without a word?

Bernadetta wouldn’t be able to handle that. It would be the worst. It was what her Father used to do, just stand and stare and judge without a word.

“Maybe, though I’m always closing.” She forces a laugh that comes out too shaky, too nervous. Ignatz gives her a smile. “It would be hard to work out."

“Well, perhaps keep it in mind on one of your days off.” He suggests before picking up his portfolio. The large plastic portfolio wobbles in his small hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow Bernadetta.”

She gets the door for him, his hands full with the portfolio and his phone, and a knapsack strapped onto his back. He looks like a little explorer, ready to travel across Fódlan to paint it all. With all the art he makes, Bernadetta’s surprised that he hasn’t already.

By now, it’s four o’clock, the rush of customers certainly finished for the day. Her daily ritual of a slow move from the backroom where she makes arrangements to the front counter where is to serve the coming customers. Though, with this dour weather and overcast skies that threaten rain, she doubts many people will want to come in and buy a ton of orchids for their lovers. More likely, they’ll be calling the local pizzeria and be turning on Netflix.

She props the door open wide enough so that she can slug through her big bag of belongings. There’s almost every humanly whim that a girl like her could want. Her sketchbook and a little hedgehog pencil case of her tools of the trade, a big old water bottle that’s scratched to shit underneath the veneer of worn stickers, her knitting to keep her hands busy, a baggie full of snacks and a novel should she want an escape. She’s also got the wifi password from the cafe next door and half the cake that she ordered, and her brother’s password to the family’s Netflix account.

If she could, she would stick in the backroom and spread out on the floor with the cushions from the defunct back patio—a bad idea from the owner that they could do a patio cafe with the neighbouring cafe, who wanted too much of the profits and the flowers required too much tending—around her. She would love making a little Bernie Bear cave, her sweater hood over her head and falling over her back like a cape, and lounging on the cushions until 8 PM comes and she has to feed the plants and then lock up.

But after her manager came in for a random spot check to see how she was faring and found her wrapped up in her Bernie Bear cave, yelling along to her drama with her new knit blanket almost finished, the cave had to be collapsed. She also got a brief lecture, ending with little more than Bernie tearing up, and the promise of harsh repercussions should this happen again.

Yet, sitting at the counter and watching people window shop for hours makes the day drag on. And her manager did not say that she _couldn’t_ have some distractions, just that she had to hear customers. So the Bernie Bear cave comes in the form of hiding behind the front counter with all her belongings and getting up every half hour or so to tend to the plants for good measure so that the window shoppers know that the open sign isn’t just for show. Besides, the door will let her know when she has a customer, with it’s gaudy chime. She pops up like a sunflower when she hears it go.

It’s closing into 7:30 when she hears it go. She drops her knitting and pops up behind the counter, her eyes falling upon a positively massive man.

“H-Hello, how can I help you today?” She stumbles, frightened by how imposing he looks. Broad shoulders and massive muscles, coarse blonde hair and a thick face. Surely he’s some sort of body builder, her mind begins to run away on her. _Is he in a gang? Is this a stick up? Oh Gods are we being robbed? I knew I should’ve taken those self-defense classes._

“Oh hi! I’m looking for some flowers.”

Bernadetta swallows nervously. “An arrangement? Or a bouquet?” She asks, her voice shaking.

He pauses thoughtfully, a hand rubbing his chin. “I dunno.”

“W-Who are they for?” She asks.

“My little sister. It’s her birthday tomorrow.” He discloses. He glances around the shop. “She said she didn’t want anything but I know some flowers would make her happy.”

Bernadetta watches him with wide eyes, panic seizing her tight. Her hands shake and she rests them against the counter top. Little dark markings of sweat bead across the old wood.

“Do you know what type she likes?” Bernadetta asks.

He gives a wide smile and rubs the back of his neck. “Nah... I’m not that far ahead.” He gives a little laugh. “Would you help me?”

“I'll t-try..” Bernadetta says, side stepping past her pile of crap on the floor behind her. “Do you know her favourite colour?”

“Yellow.” He says.

“Yellow... Yellow...” Bernadetta sidesteps past him. There’s Forsythia and Daffodils and...

The customer follows her steps closely as she stops before some rudbeckia, the last few grown by the greenhouse. She pulls one up. “Do you think she’ll like these?”

“What are they?”

“Rudbeckia, some call them coneflowers. They’re not in season now, we just got a little order of them on Monday. But come summer they’ll be more, that way if she likes them she can come back.”

“That’s a smart idea.” The customer marvels.

Bernadetta’s eyes fall on some left over zinnias from a breakup order that Ignatz prepared earlier. The orange and purple will look nice with the rudbeckias... she pulls up a few.

“Do you want a bouquet or an arrangement?” She asks.

The customer’s brow furrows. Bernadetta knows the look of confusion very well: he doesn’t know how much to spend. The florists are well versed in this trait, the fickle customer who hasn’t a clue how much is acceptable and unacceptable to spend. There’s tactics that florists know, like asking the age, occasion, reasons...

For example, should a boyfriend royally fuck up something, a beautiful orchid—the queen of flowers for it’s price—would be apt. If it’s a graduation of a beloved sister, a dozen roses would more than suffice. A prom would warrant a little corsage, maybe even a dozen camellias should the date be a high spender. And if it’s a first date, a single flower would be more than enough in both romantic connotation and budget.

“Would you tell me how old your sister is going to be?” Bernadetta asks.

“Fifteen.” He replies. Bernadetta realizes that he’s wearing a part of baker’s whites, or at least the trousers. There’s a few lashes of flour on his massive arms too. Perhaps he’s not so scary...

“I would suggest an arrangement then. The vase is free of charge with purchase.” She says, slipping behind the counter.

“Okay, let’s go with that.” He says as Bernadetta slips behind the counter, almost tripping over her stuff and flocking to the end. She picks a pretty glass vase, round and fat, off the counter and lays out the rudbeckia she picked. She pulls her apron, which she took off while she was watch her dramas, over her head and sets to work.

“I’ve passed this shop a lot on my way home.” The customer says. He traces the shop, the thuds of his boots vibrating through the floor. “Never came in before.”

“We service all of Garreg Mach.” Bernadetta discloses.

“Really? That’s a lot.”

“Yes, the church on the hill even orders our perennials in the springtime to decorate the gardens.”

“They order from our cake shop for their anniversary.” The customer notes.

Bernadetta pauses her work, turning back to glance at him. “Do you work around here?” She finds herself asking. She’s not used to small talk with customers, not in the least.

“A door or two over, Golden Deer Cafe.” He says. “I’m the downstairs, in the bakery.”

She has to close her mouth to keep her jaw from dropping. That’s where she got her slice of cake from. “I love the cakes...” she whispers softly.

That sends the customer buzzing. “Do you visit often? Yeah?” He asks, excited as a child. “We love serving the street, we even have a deal going with the mechanics shop a block away. They work on our cars and shop in exchange for lunches.”

“Th-That’s very generous of you.” Bernadetta observes. She reaches for the scissors, cutting the stems on an angle. The zinnias and rudbeckias spread apart in the glass.

“It’s important to take care of others, you know. Especially your neighbours.” He says. “I’m Raphael! What’s your name?”

Bernadetta’s fingers stop on the edges of a zinnia. The petals are soft against her finger tips. No one’s ever asked for her name. Then again, she’s never really chattered with anyone. “Bernadetta.” she says.

“It’s nice to meet you Bernadetta! I hope we can be good neighbours.” He offers his hand to shake, and Bernadetta slinks back a little bit. A look of disappointment comes over his face and she turns away, back to the tray of ribbon set for decoration.

Bernadetta turns her back, pulling out a tray of ribbon. “Which one do you think your sister will like?”

“Which will go? I’m not really good with this stuff.”

Bernadetta’s eyes flicker over the spools of cerulean, silver, crimson, violet and black. There’s a spool of gold, which she takes an immediate liking to. “This one.” She says, pulling a portion and snipping it on an angle. She ties it in a wonderful knot, the edges hidden by the large bow.

Then, she selects a little card—for they are the most important part to her. The flowers will rot and fall apart, and maybe a few will be saved and pressed, but otherwise, will become a faded memory. The card however, will remain for years to come. She plucks a purple one, and then a gold pen, graciously donated by Ignatz, and tells him to write something.

(For “ _sometimes a black pen just won’t do_ ”, he said once.)

She catches glimpse of what it says. _Love ya lots, Maya. Happy birthday!! Love, your big bro, Raphael._ Bernadetta perches the card between the petals of bright rudbeckia and an orange zinnia. She slides the vase closer to him, then turns to the register, and types up the subtotal.

“With the discount, it comes to $40.” She says, her eyes on the screen.

“Discount?”

“First time customers.” She lies. It’s actually hers.

His brow furrows a little bit. “Really, I insist. You guys gotta stay in business, my friend works here.”

She holds up her hand. “G-Gotta take care of your neighbours, right?” She forces a nervous smile. “Besides, I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Raphael gives her a look before opening up his wallet and handing over a few bills. The register drawer pops open and Bernadetta files it all away as he looks the flowers. “She’s gonna love them...”

“I hope your sister has a happy birthday,” Bernadetta says, a little sheepishly.

“She will now, with your help. Thanks again.” He offers a smile that makes her face heat.

Raphael collects the gift in one arm and leaves the flower shop. When he turns around to give another wave goodbye, the counter is empty and Bernadetta has dived back under the shade of the counter, returning to her escape of dramas and knitting.

* * *

Raphael often works the morning shift at the bakery-cafe. He opens, along with Ingrid. Together, they start the cinnamon rolls, the challah, the rye and sourdoughs, even begin some of the muffins and cookies. And while the three AM wake up call is killer, he can still get behind it with a quick four-kilometre run around the block to get the blood pumping and then cold shower to cool down before going to the bakery for five.

It’s tiring, but not more tiring than any other side job he does. Sometimes, he’ll do personal training in the evening or do a few odd jobs with moving people’s stuff. Besides, in the bakery, he can do something he loves best: cook.

Though baking is a little trickier than cooking. But if the cafe needs a hand upstairs, they’ll call for him, which is always a bright spot in his day.

And while the bakery is the last place a guy of his size and stature would expect to be—the bakery is in the basement, where the ceiling hangs low and he has to dip his head in to get in—it’s been his home for the last few years, since he and his sister, Maya, came to Garreg Mach. They’ve lived in the same little flat halfway across town since they landed, with Raphael in the living room on the sofa, and Maya in the one bedroom. It’s tight, but it’s plenty for the two of them.

With working at the bakery and the side jobs Raphael takes, there’s enough to cover the rent and groceries but little to cover Maya’s education. She attends the esteemed high school, half-paid by the will left behind by their late parents, and the other half paid by their Grandfather back in Leicester.

(They both know that Maya will have to score high on her finals every year to get a scholarship at the university where Ignatz attends. His parents always said that education is power. Too bad Raphael’s not the type for book-and-pen learning.)

So he’s content to work at the bakery and do his odd jobs around town until Maya is finished school and settled and has a good paying job. Then, he’ll probably go back to Leicester or find a roommate and stick around here. Besides, he’s made a few good friends in Garreg Mach. He has usual customers who will eat upstairs and then come downstairs for a cup of coffee or to grab a loaf of bread. He’ll happily serve them and then chat for a bit until Ingrid calls forth the next customer or the ovens begin to beep with the end of the timer. He’s always happy to chat with the regulars who make a special stop downstairs.

But Raphael doesn’t expect to serve Bernadetta the following week.

He’s finished throwing some cheddar-jalapeño bread into the oven for a bake when the door goes. It’s just after two and the afternoon rush is ending.

Ingrid, who’s been taking orders for the take out counter of the cafe for the last three hours, finally goes on her lunch right before Bernadetta slinks in. Raphael perks right up when he hears the door chime and a waft of cool spring air come in.

“Be with you in a sec!” He says, washing the rest of the dough off of his hands. He peeks through the cutaway to see Bernadetta, standing a little ways away from the service counter. Her brow is furrowed, a finger poised on her cheek as if she’s deep in thought over the day’s cakes in the glass.

(Wouldn’t be the first time she’s thought so much over a slice.)

Raphael comes through the back, giving her a wide smile. “Heya Bernadetta!” He greets loudly. The poor florist jumps a little, grasping her purse tight. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you!”

She gives a sheepish smile before smoothing out the edge of her grey skirt. “It’s okay, I was just lost in the menu.” She gives a nervous laugh.

“Is it your day off?” He asks. The frilly purple blouse and clip in her messy hair say that she’s out for a day on the town.

“No, I’m just on my way into work.” Bernadetta says, her eyes flickering back to the menu.

“Closing again?”

“I always close.” She sighs.

“That sucks.”

“It’s okay, there’s less people so I can just relax.” She says. “It’s not so bad.”

“Really? Seems a little lonely.”

Her brow furrows, her eyes flickering back to his. She meets his gaze for a split second before looking back to her boots. “It’s not so bad, I like my time alone. Besides, I have my crafts to keep me company.” Bernadetta’s face flushes as soon as the words leave her lips.

“What do you craft?” He asks.

Her hands wring. “I knit a little, and sew too.” She says.

“What are you sewing right now?”

Her hands reach for her phone, her fingers tapping across the screen. It lights up with a half finished afghan blanket, with patches of yellow and purple. Raphael gets one good look before her phone is back in her bag.

“That’s really cool, Bernadetta! I bet it takes a lot of patience and talent for that.”

Her cheeks burn red as she turns into the collar of her jacket. Raphael gives her another smile as her eyes flicker back up to him nervously.

“Didja need help deciding?”

She nods. “There’s so many teas...”

“There’s a bigger list upstairs actually.” Raphael says. “What flavours do you like? Sweet, sour, bitter, strong?”

“Sweet.”

“There’s a berry tea from Albinea that’s pretty good. Me, I like the ginger tea best. Wakes me up a little.”

Her eyes flicker back to his. “I’ll take one of those then.” She says.

“Any sweets?” He asks, beginning to turn back to the hot water dispenser. Along the side wall is a huge display of teas. Raphael reaches up and pulls down a canister of Albinean berry blend, takes a little scoop of the blend and wraps it up in a sachet.

“I wouldn’t know where to start. So no.” Bernadetta says.

He watches as her eyes trace the bakery. In the front windows are a few mugs and napkins and other kitchen knickknacks. Occasionally, they’ll get flowers from upstairs but it’s not always consistent, and they don’t have the time to care for them. Most of the time, they just die. There’s not much else, save for some chalkboards that advertise today’s breads—sesame challah, sweet mango buns and cinnamon swirl bread—as well as the order times for weekend pickup.

He brings the wax cup of tea over, slips a sleeve on it and caps it. “I don’t think you’ll need any sweetener with it, but honey is nice.” He says. He gently pushes the cup towards the edge of the counter as she comes back. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” Bernadetta says, placing a mug on the counter. It’s enamel, with a big bear on the side. “And this too please.”

Raphael brings up the subtotal and turns to the cookie container nearby while Bernadetta rifles through her purse to find her wallet. He grabs a bag and pulls out iced almond cookies.

When she looks back up, her wallet is in her little hand and it clangs with charms both metal and acrylic. Raphael glances up with a smile. “Cute wallet.”

She flushes again, embarrassed by the kindness or the fact that her interests have been noticed. “How much is it?”

“Fifteen even.”

Bernadetta taps a card against the machine, and sorts back through her purse. Raphael snags the bag from the side, twists it and places them in the mug. When Bernadetta looks back, her brow furrows.

“First time customers get free cookies.”

She gives him a cursory look. “Really?”

“Yep, they’re almond too. I think you’ll like them a lot.” He says. “They pair well with the tea.”

Bernadetta shifts, her eyes on the paper bag. “Is this some ploy?” She asks cautiously.

“Nope. Besides, it’s important to take care of others, especially your neighbours.” Raphael says. Bernadetta swipes the mug and puts it into her bag, and reaches for the bag of cookies. “A sweet always puts me in the mood for a good shift!” He smiles.

The door swings open, another customer coming in for a late order or pickup. Raphael looks away to greet the customer with a hearty hello, and when he looks back down, Bernadetta is out the door, an almond cookie in her hand and already bitten into.

* * *

There’s a little ritual that Bernadetta has when she closes up the flower shop. It usually involves a hasty clean and some snacks to motivate her, but tonight she doesn’t need it. For whatever reason, she’s in a good mood, changed by the radio that Ignatz left tuned to the local indie station. She hums along to the songs on the old boombox, all keeping her awake.

Well, hum is liberal. She’s belting it out like she’s on Broadway. Some pop song that’s been on the radio for the last few weeks, perhaps the summer jam that will top the charts until she’s sick of it by the Garland Moon. But for now she sings along to the lyrics, the song playing from the radio on the counter.

In truth, Bernadetta enjoys music a lot. She could never play back at home, her Father forbade it. Said it wasn’t ladylike to play instruments. Or sew. Or care for flowers and get muddy. Or even speak on some days.

When she came to Garreg Mach, she had so much to get used to. All the freedom she never had before back in Adrestia: a place of her own, with no family or judging gaze heavy on her back. No tabloids or anyone lingering after her with a camera or tape recorder to catch her latest blunder. No harsh father to correct her every mistake with a sharp reprimand or cruel punishment.

And in another, more reclusive truth, she adores her little two-bedroom flat. It’s a little sad, as she adores her Mother and misses her dearly; in fact, she’s the reason why she’s in the heart of all Fódlan instead of back in Varley territory, walking on glass in straw slippers. Her flat, in it’s 1500 square feet, is more spacious and comfortable than the massive manor she was raised in. She has her own bedroom, one that she’s taken to decorating with string lights and pictures of places and things that she likes, both near and far, old and new. The little balcony she has is decorated in plants that hang down through the railing and threaten to seep inside her little apartment.

The other bedroom is sort of a guest room, not that she has any. There’s a futon inside and extra sheets and dirty laundry and other crafting supplies as well as her trumpet—a relic sent by her Mother from home. The front room is a mess of a little sofa and chairs, a TV set that has no cable, but access to streaming which leads into the kitchen that’s woefully under decorated. She’s got a set of shitty plates, glasses and bowls from a local home store and old cutlery that was on blow out. And one mug exactly, the little bear one that she got from the bakery.

(Every morning and evening she has a cup of tea inside the little bear mug. But it doesn’t compare to the berry blend that she drank on her way to work that morning. The cookies made it all the better.)

Her apartment is a work in progress, just like her. Then again, who isn’t?

Even having her own job is a jarring experience. Her own money to spend—which an allowance siphoned by her Mother to help pay bills and keep her comfortable—and her own schedule to decide. When the manager asked if she needed any days off, she shook her head and said no. Hence the 6-day work week of shortened hours.

It was a quiet shift, she took two orders for wedding arrangements and made one bouquet for a cute, ginger mechanic running for her date. The rest of it, she spent knitting and half-paying attention to a drama on Netflix that she’d already seen. When seven rolled around, she began the nightly ritual of clean up. Bernadetta pulls out the broom, sweeping away the dirt and sand brought in from the outside. Spring may be here but winter’s end will linger for sometime. Or until the street sweepers make their rounds and take away the salt and sand.

She cleans up the floors and carpets, then gives the flowers one last water change and a drink. Dedue pruned them all this morning, so there’s little care needed, save for the soil check and making sure the temperamental ones are getting the light and heat they need. After majority of the work is done, and she’s pulled down the curtains and flicked the latch on the front door, she grants herself a little reprieve with a vacuum.

Strangest thing about her is that Bernadetta enjoys vacuuming the flower shop. Ignatz and Dedue dislike it (even complain about dragging it out when soil gets on the floor), but Bernadetta doesn’t mind it. After all, she can tune out the noise and there’s little physical labour involved. All she has to do is pull the vacuum behind her.

She plugs it in, turns up the radio’s volume and blasts the top 40. She sings along off key, pulling the noisy old cleaner along and sucking away the remnants of the outside world. In a soft voice—which is soft to her, but not to someone whose hearing isn’t muddled by their own voice and a blaring vacuum cleaner.

She doesn’t realize her voice is _that_ loud until the door swings open and chimes. She’s about to talk the flowers (not the first time and by the Gods, not the last) when she hears a booming voice.

“ _That... was... amazing!_ ”

Bernadetta shrieks, pulling the vacuum up and ready to use it as a weapon. She’s about to ask the flower if it was sent by the Goddess or cursed but instead turns around. Raphael’s standing in the doorway, still in his baker’s whites. There’s a smudge of chocolate, or maybe barbecue sauce on his cheek but she can’t tell. Her heart is thudding in her chest, hammering like a drum. She feels like she’s going to fall over. Or have a panic attack. Or faint.

“I didn’t know you could sing, Bernadetta!” Raphael says. He’s got a wide smile on his face, and for a spilt second, her mind lapses back to an old, horrible memory. She falters back, almost tripping over the vacuum cleaner.

“How did you get in here?!” She shrieks, wanting to vanish and die at the same time. Embarrassment burns her alive.

“The door was open, I could hear you down the street!” He chimes happily. “You’re really good Bernadetta! Did you take lessons?”

Sothis above, start a freak lightning storm and strike her down right now.

“You’re pulling my leg.” She insists, quickly hoisting up the vacuum cleaner and bringing it to the back.

She hears him protest. “Am not! You’re seriously good!” Raphael calls. She’s tucking it into the back closet when she hears his footsteps trace the flower shop again. “You should sing more often, it’s nice. Do you play anything?”

“Why do you want to know? So you can make fun of that?” She calls from behind the door. She leans against her workbench, her hands gripping the wood tightly.

“Why would I make fun of you?” Raphael asks, his brow beginning to furrow. “We’re friends after all.”

She stops. “Friends?” Her feet scuff against the floor, moving closer to the doorway. She appears under the arch, folding her hands nervously as Raphael gives her a wide smile. “We’re friends?”

“I like to think so.”

“But we barely know each other.” Bernadetta insists. She’s never really had friends, save for one. But that was a long time ago, and it ended badly.

“How can we be friends if we don’t know each other?”

“Well I know that you work here as a florist, and that you craft!” He says before taking a step closer to the counter. “And I know that you like sweet teas and cakes!”

She flinches back a little. For a split second she wonders if he’s read her online fiction. “But we don’t know each other.” Bernadetta presses.

“We always could. We don’t work that far from each other and I really like hanging out with you.” He says. “It’d be nice to get to know you. Maybe I could even help you get over your fears a bit."

“My fears?”

“You get a little jumpy when you talk to people.” He says. “I noticed it back in the cafe and then again now. No problem with it, I just... want you to be comfortable.”

“Well I’m not exactly comfortable with someone coming in when the sign says closed.” She pouts.

“But I could help you, like with talking and such.” Raphael offers. “Start with me!”

Bernadetta holds her breath, as if not to laugh or yell out. “You’re... um... pretty intimidating Raphael.”

His face flickers with a hint of sadness. “I know I’m a big guy, but... Hm. Okay, what if I turned away?” He asks. “I had to help my coworker Caspar become a little more relaxed when talking to customers so how about that?”

“I don’t really talk to customers. Most of the time I’m in the backroom.” She murmurs, smoothing her hands down the front of her apron. “It’s only at night when I come out.”

“Still, you’re gonna need to be able to talk to people.” Raphael’s face lights up. “Oh! I know, I’ll look away!”

Bernadetta’s brow furrows as he turns his back to her. “Here! Try now!”

Her hands shake. “Um... You’re still really intimidating...” she trails off. “But okay, I’ll try.”

Bernadetta’s voice shakes as she takes another comfortable step back. “H-Hello sir. How are you today?”

“I’m great! How are you?” His voice booms.

“I’m... okay...” She says. “Can I h-help you with anything?”

“Yes. I’m actually looking for gardening tools!”

“Raphael? Could you lower your voice a little bit?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Raphael says. He glances over his shoulder slightly and then turns back to the wall of flowers. “My little sister got some bulbs and wants to plant them in our garden. But we’re unsure about gardening.”

“Which flower do you have?” She asks, confidence growing bit by bit.

“Some zinnias. I bought them from here actually.”

Bernadetta’s heart skips a beat. The flowers he bought would have died by now, but zinnia do drop seeds. They’d have time to plant them before the spring’s full boom. Bernadetta brightens a little bit, wrangling the garden that he has out of him—which is actually just a few pots and a railing planter on the side of a balcony.

Then, as she’s moving closer to recommend a little yellow watering can, some gloves and a little bag of mulch, he says something that makes her stop in her tracks.

“It’s just me and my little sister. I’d do anything to make her happy.”

Alone too. Her breath catches in her throat. Bernadetta stops walking. Except, he has a sister and she has nothing save for a little Venus fly trap and a pantry full of cookies.

“I think she’d like these too.” Bernadetta says softly, pulling up some garden decorations. They’re little bees, something to entice bees to pollinate. With shaking hands, she stands beside Raphael and takes his large hand. “They’ll help the garden grow nicely.”

He glances to her, a soft smile slowly coming across his face. His hand clasps around the tools, almost like doll’s toys inside his palm. Bernadetta brings her hands back to herself, offering him a smile. “You’re a terrific big brother.” She says softly.

His smile grows, giving a little nod. Quickly, Bernadetta snaps back to her usual state of nervousness, turning away and hurrying back to the counter. She signs back into the system and brings up the total.

“With the discount the total is $30.77.” She says.

“Do you live around here?”

Bernadetta glances up. “D-Down the street.”

“I could walk you home if you’d like.”

“Why?”

“We gotta take care of our neighbours. And besides, you could practice more on me!” He smiles.

The answer is immediate. “N-No. Sorry.” Bernadetta says. She wraps up his purchases in a paper bag and slides them across the counter. “You’re still a stranger to me. Neighbour or not.”

His smile fades as he nods. “I understand. I only wanted to help you Bernadetta. Take care.” He says softly. When he leaves the flower shop, he gives her a little wave goodbye that makes her heart leap and then sink into the pit of her stomach.

* * *

Raphael doesn’t expect to see Bernadetta the following morning. Not at all. But she’s there at ten in the morning, wearing a pretty dress with precise embroidery and her big bag.

Ingrid’s the one to call him out. “Raphael, there’s a customer asking for you.” She says, before calling the next customer ahead. Raphael steps out from the back, his brow furrowing when Bernadetta is standing there with a gift bag.

“Hi Raphael.”

“Hey Bernadetta. Did you need something?” He asks before glancing to Ingrid. “Ing could help you.”

“No.” She says, her voice shaky. She swallows back fear and speaks again. “No I need to speak with you.”

Raphael’s brow furrows. He shrugs and nods. “Okay, sure.” He says, calling back to Caspar to man the ovens while he’s gone. Caspar calls back with a snappy retort, that he might as well just run the place. Raphael pulls off his apron, lifts up the counter flap and follows Bernadetta.

She skitters outside, to the little bistro set under an umbrella. She pulls a chair back and sits down, nervously staring at her hands. Her brow knits and she looks like she’s about to cry. Her face is crumpled into a fierce frown and her lip pouts out wide.

“If it’s too much to say you could always text it to me.” He says. “Or write it down and leave it on the table.”

“No I need to say it out loud.” She says firmly. He’s surprised by how strong her voice is.

He gives an assuring nod. “Okay.” He says softly.

Bernadetta take a deep breath. “I’m scared of you.”

Not the first time someone’s said that.

“But you’re really kind to me Raphael. And I want be friends with you, I just don’t know how.” she confesses. “And every time we talk and I get time to calm down, I realize I’ve overreacted.” She says.

“Hey now, it’s okay.” He says in his softest voice. “I know I’m big and I can be intimidating. But it’s okay.”

“It... It isn’t. I feel horrible because you’re nothing but kind to me and...”

“Stop it. I don’t know what you’ve been through and you don’t know what I have either.” He says. “You can’t jump to conclusions on people without knowing the full story. And sometimes you don’t.”

She looks up, her lips part. “You just have to work towards being a kinder person.” He says. “Or at least, that’s what my little sister says. I try to live by it, be a good neighbour, you know?”

A little smile comes across Bernadetta’s face, her eyes welling up with tears. “Your sister sounds really smart.”

“She is. She’s smarter than I’ll ever be.” Raphael says. “So don’t sweat it, Bernadetta. You’re my neighbour and I’m always gonna be kind to you. And I want to be friends someday, but I’m okay being neighbours right now.”

There’s a moment of silence as Bernadetta’s smile begins to rumple. Her eyes become a little glassy and Raphael searches his pockets for a tissue or cloth. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a little embroidered handkerchief. His eyes fall upon little hedgehogs on the cloth.

“That’s cute.” He says.

She wipes away the rest of her tears and sniffles. Her gaze falls upon the cloth. “I made it myself.”

“Do you embroider?”

She nods. “Actually I...” she pushes the paper bag closer to him. “It’s not much for an apology, but I made you this.” She says.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to though.” She says.

Raphael pulls the paper bag closer and pulls away the tissue paper. Inside is a white apron with an embroidered name tag. It’s done in gold, brown and yellow threads, with a little rudbeckia beside a bear’s face. His name is spelt out. “An apron?” He gasps. “It’s so cool Bernadetta! You did this yourself?!”

She nods. “I spent last night making it.” She says.

“For me?”

She nods again as he kicks back the chair to try it on. The apron is a little snug, the ties barely going around his waist. Bernadetta clips them together with a few bobby pins as Raphael stares at it. “Do you... um... Like it?”

“Like it? I love it!” He cries out, then runs to the door. He calls in to Ingrid and Caspar, “Hey guys, look what my neighbour Bernadetta made me!”

Praise and requests for personalized aprons pour out of the bakery, making Bernadetta blush with embarrassment. When he turns back, her face is burning red and she feels faint. Still, she summons all her courage. "Could we... t-try to be friends?" Her heart stutters with worry for what may or may not be. 

But it's not needed for such a sweet man. Raphael beams and nods. "Absolutely!" He says, holding out his hand for her to take. "Start with me, and I'll start with you, Bernadetta." 

Fighting caution, Bernadetta reaches out and shakes his hand. She musters her strongest smile for him. "Okay Raphael."


End file.
